City Mouse

by Amy Lane

  Owen’s thrusts were erratic, fierce, and Malcolm jammed the control up to max, then used that hand to stroke himself while Owen pummeled his throat. They both came in a frantic mess, Malcolm swallowing, Owen fucking his face.

  Malcolm needed no more than a couple strokes to get there. He pulled back a little when he came, dizzy with lack of oxygen, which was another turn-on, but for that kind of game they’d need to . . . ah, fuck it, whatever. He came, glad that he couldn’t make a great deal of sound, and remained on his knees, panting.

  Owen slid halfway down the wall. “Oh Christ,” he breathed.

  “Now you’re allowed to be interested in Japanese wood—after I’ve dealt with yours.” Malcolm cleared his raw throat.

  “Am I allowed to take this thing out of my ass too?” Owen asked before gulping more air.

  “Probably a good idea.” Malcolm had spilled on the placket of his jeans. He took in another hard breath and tried to orient himself. “Could you hand me a wad of tissue there? I need to—”

  Owen had pitched forward, pants still around his ankles, and was thrusting his tongue down Malcolm’s throat with more energy than Malcolm had thought he possessed. Malcolm returned the kiss, his whole body still tingling, and then Owen pulled back and bumped his nose along Malcolm’s cheek.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “That was really amazing.”

  Malcolm swallowed, absurdly touched. You usually didn’t get a lot of tenderness after a frantic fuck in the bathroom. Only his Owen, he thought. Only Owen.

  “My pleasure,” he said shortly. “Which is why I need the tissue. Speaking of which . . .”

  Owen laughed softly, and reached behind him for the toilet paper dispenser, pulling off a big wad to help with clean-up, and then he stood up and cleared his throat.

  “Could you, uhm . . . you know?”

  Malcolm stood up and tried to get a hold of himself. It had been a kiss. Just a kiss. Really—wasn’t a kiss from a lover a given?

  “What?” he asked, feeling dumb.

  “Maybe turn around a minute? I sort of have to . . .” He gestured vaguely around his naked parts. “You know?”

  Malcolm giggled. “Put the jack back in the box?”

  Owen nodded, a flush forming a half-crescent on his cheekbones, and Malcolm’s chest suddenly ached. “Yeah. Right.” He turned around, and tried not to listen as Owen sat down on the commode and divested himself of Malcolm’s little purchase. After an awkward minute or so, and some more tissue, they’d cleaned themselves up from their little adventure, and then spent some time at the sink, making sure their clothes and everything else were in order.

  Before they left, Owen stopped and shoved the toy, box, bag, and all, back into Malcolm’s jacket pocket. And then kissed him again.

  Malcolm’s lips parted under his, and Owen’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck. Gratitude. Sweetness. All of that mindfucking, that torture, and the actual act was over within three minutes in a bathroom stall.

  But this? This was . . . lasting. Permeating. The sweetness sat, heavy and warm, over Malcolm’s stomach for the rest of the day, and he was mellow enough to not mind the screaming kids playing tag in the museum.

  They made their way through the exhibition, noodle-limbed, and although Owen made some good efforts at catching his usual enthusiasm, especially when they sat through the presentation on manuscript illumination, it was clear that, like Malcolm, he was a little bit dazed and a lot quiet.

  They went on a short tour of Cambridge before checking in at Prospero Homes, and that was, well, refreshing, in spite of the omnipresent children screaming from boutique to gallery. (Was it the same cloud of them, like a cloud of gnats? Malcolm wondered if they all looked like that, or just the ones who could hit that octave that made his ears bleed.)

  All in all, it took most of their energy to make it to the little studio room to crash on the couch, zap through the channels, and then call it an early night after room service. Sex was slow and gentle, which worked, too. More frantic need and danger seemed like too much effort after their museum adventure. For the first time since he’d discovered that his cock didn’t answer to the same call as his mates in school, Malcolm didn’t seem to crave frantic need, danger, or pain.

  Owen’s long, possessive arm thrown over his middle as his sleeping breaths filtered softly through the dark seemed to be more than enough.

  “Hullo, Mum,” Owen said distractedly. His mother had called him the previous Saturday too, while he’d been working, before the entire adventure to Cambridge. One of the best things about the non-profit was that they didn’t really give a rat’s ass if you talked to your parents or your lovers or your kids during business hours—and they certainly didn’t care if you were in on a Saturday. Owen tried not to abuse that, but it was nice when it happened.

  “Oh, so I’m ‘Mum’ now?” She asked, her voice amused but not acerbic.

  Owen laughed. “You are while I’m over here. How’s work?”

  “Boring. Uninteresting. The same thing it was when you were a kid and I wasn’t thrilled to be there. How’s your love life with a total stranger in the middle of a foreign country? Now that’s what a mother wants to know.”

  Owen had a sudden vision of him and Malcolm the weekend before, with a vibrating egg up his ass and Malcolm’s mouth on his cock in a public bathroom, and gasped—and his mom heard it.

  “Oh God—Owen! That is not what I meant.”

  Owen let himself laugh out loud. God, for such a free-spirited person, his mom sure did have her moments of perfect mother’s prudery.

  It was one of many things that made his mom the best mom ever. He’d fight an entire bar full of rednecks to prove it.

  “It’s going pretty good, actually,” he said, thinking it was true. “Of course it’s only been two weeks.” Well, three as of today.

  Malcolm was due in at any moment, but not to go anywhere. Owen had been adamant about that. Straighten the apartment—er, flat—do some shopping, spend the time reading, fucking, laughing. Maybe they’d take in a movie or go out to dinner, but he wanted things normal. Malcolm was easy to love when he was showing Owen around his city. He was not so easy to love when he was browbeating Wendy the receptionist or looking like he was allergic to children, small animals, and postcodes that weren’t in his book.

  “Yeah, you remember mom’s thing, right?”

  How could he forget?

  “Six weeks,” he said. “Yeah, I remember, but right now, we’re on week three. Do you want to hear about Cambridge?” His mother used to say that any life change—from having a baby to starting school to getting a new job—took six weeks to get used to. After six weeks, things would get horrible; a person would be at his absolute worst, most exhausted, most disoriented, and most irritable; and then, after that, things would get better.

  “Of course, darling—but don’t forget. The honeymoon period is always good—”

  “It’s great,” he said firmly, not wanting to talk about his misgivings. Something hinky had been going on with the market, and Malcolm had started coming home later and later. He fessed up when it was out for a drink with his work buddies—and Owen would have been blind to miss his utter contempt of them, so jealousy was right out, but still. That job was killing the man, and after only two weeks, it was hard to watch. But Owen wasn’t going to whine on his mother right now. He’d save that for week six, when she tended to make everything better, just like she had for most of his misspent youth. “Have you heard about the museum at Cambridge?” he asked, and was gratified when she let him steer the conversation elsewhere.

  But he didn’t get away completely. He heard his phone buzz, and tried to sign off.

  “Mom, gotta go—I gotta get this thing back together before Mal gets here—”

  “How is he doing?” she asked perceptively, and Owen grunted.

  “Malcolm’s still a little . . . uhm, unused to being in a relationship, but he’s starting to relax.”

  “Wel
l don’t get too relaxed. I know you’re in love, hon—you told me, I buy it. But this happened so fast, it’s going to present some challenges, okay?”

  “I hear you, mom—mum,” he muttered. “I love you.”

  “Just remember—”

  “Week six.”

  It sounded like a curse, really, but that wasn’t it. Owen could imagine his mother—a chubby American woman with just enough bone structure and a nice enough smile to make her pretty. She’d stopped dyeing her hair before he left, and it had grown out, which left her with what she’d always called her sorceress’s streak of white above her brow. She’d never lacked for boyfriends, although she’d been choosy and discreet. She just had the warmest smile, and the most limpid brown eyes—Owen had always thought of her as beautiful.

  But she was a little commandant when it came to helping Owen learn to manage his own life.

  “That’s right, baby. Just make sure you’re ready.”

  “I will be,” he promised dutifully, but as he rang off, that wasn’t what he was thinking. What he was thinking was that his boyfriend was coming, and they hadn’t had sex the night before because Malcolm had been late, and that the entire—the entire building, he’d checked—was absolutely empty this time around.

  Now that he wasn’t talking to his mum anymore (and he loved saying that), it was enough to give a boy a hard-on.

  “Owen! Owen, dammit, you’d better be fucking done.”

  God—anyone not in Brixton would be wondering what Malcolm was actually doing in Brixton. Owen didn’t get it—or not all of it—but he was starting to understand the strong undercurrent of postcode snobbery that was etched into the bedrock underneath. That didn’t mean he subscribed to it, that just meant he was starting to understand it wasn’t just Malcolm. The look of disappointment on Wendy’s face when she’d seen the address on his check had been heartbreaking—not because he was thinking of taking her up on her rack, but because she suddenly believed her Brixton address was the reason he wouldn’t.

  But that wasn’t his primary concern right now.

  He threw his love of his job and his usual conscientiousness to the four winds and shoved all the little pieces back into the computer he was working on, making sure they would be there when he showed up early on Monday. Hell, Malcolm was always early, he’d be early, and for once there would be work waiting for him instead of the other way around.

  “I’m on my way!” he shouted, springing up and grabbing his tool knapsack. He kept it behind Wendy’s receptionist desk, so he’d need to stop there to throw it in, but other than that, the network was down, and he was off hours.

  Malcolm was halfway up the first flight of steps, and by then, Owen had so much momentum he almost knocked him down.

  “Oh—oh my God.” He laughed as he grabbed the rail and sat back on his ass, hard. “Mal, I didn’t expect you to come up. I’m on my way down.”

  The weather had cooled off—it was the beginning of October now—and Owen didn’t need a new shirt, but he was still damp in the closeness of the stairwell.

  “Obviously,” Malcolm said, and Owen could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. There was something very . . . wistful . . . about the way he was looking at Owen, and Owen’s hunger, the part of him that had missed Mal the night before with ferocity and hurt, woke up with a bang. Owen surged to his feet, stepped to Malcolm’s level, and palmed the back of his head, bringing him in for a kiss.

  Owen kissed hard, kissed deep, and when Malcolm went limp, his desire overcoming what Owen knew was a hatred of the building and the workplace in general, Owen wanted to give him something back.

  Malcolm’s job meant everything to him. Owen had different priorities.

  He kissed harder, more, backing Malcolm down the stairs, dominating him by sheer, stinking need. They reached the lower landing and Malcolm pulled back, his expression so stunned he actually looked younger, almost boyish, and with a liquid yearning in his pale blue eyes.

  “Missed you last night,” Malcolm said. His lips were swollen from the kiss, and soft, and Owen had to lick them, gently, with the tip of his tongue before answering.

  “Backatcha,” he growled. “Want you now.”

  “What,” Malcolm pulled back breathlessly. “Now it’s okay to have sex at work?”

  Owen shook his head, not willing to quibble. “Now it’s time to show you which one I love more.” He lowered his head again, and kept pushing, back, back, and Malcolm finally took initiative, puffing up like he wanted to be in charge.

  “There—that desk.” He was eyeballing the animal shelter desk, which was no more neat than it had been last week, and Owen shook his head in irritation.

  “Stop trying to be a prick—we’re not wrecking Robbie’s desk because you want to be bent over—”

  “I was going to bend you over.”

  It was a useless protest, they both knew it, because Malcolm was so pliant right now that even the most inexperienced Dom would have spotted him in a hot second. He was weak, and needy, but still, with Malcolm, there was the face, the front, the need for posturing.

  Owen had to give that credence if he was going to live with Malcolm at all.

  “C’mere,” Owen muttered. He grabbed Malcolm’s hand and dragged him to the end of the receptionist counter, then up the two stairs that led into Wendy’s little kiosk. The inside of the little half-cubicle was surrounded by shelves holding everything from copy paper to hand lotion, none of which they were going to need today.

  No bending over, no fucking blind—if Malcolm wanted to front being in charge, let him. Owen wasn’t picky. At this point, he would settle for swallowing Malcolm’s thickness down his throat and having Malcolm call his name as he came.

  He wasn’t gentle as he grabbed Malcolm’s hips and shoved him back against the wall, and his hands made quick work of his jeans and his belt. (A belt. With his jeans. It so went against Owen’s code of casualness. Really.)

  “Gagging for it, are we?” Malcolm said, his arrogance peeping out along with his swollen cock.

  Owen jerked back. “Would you like me to stop?” he said, feathering the softest of touches along Mal’s lower abdomen, right above where his cockhead was trapped by the waistband of his scrunched up boxers.

  Malcolm sucked in a breath, and Owen watched with satisfaction as a clear drop of fluid welled up in his slit. He bent at the waist and stuck out a pointed tongue, the rush of the moment slowing down as he allowed just the barest edge of his tongue to taste the tip of Malcolm’s cock.

  Malcolm’s sound was too high pitched to be a groan, too breathy to be a whimper, and too urgent to be ignored.

  “Please don’t stop,” he breathed, and Owen grinned at him, then shoved his jeans down some more before lowering himself down to the floor. Malcolm surprised him by thrusting something at him as he was trying to get his balance.

  It was one of those rubber “O” pillows that people used on their chairs, and Owen was absurdly touched. “Thanks,” he murmured, and placed it under his knees as he settled. Then, from a position of subservience, he looked up at Malcolm, bristly, magnificent Malcolm, and prepared to dominate.

  He grabbed the denim and Malcolm’s boxers in the same handfuls and dragged them down his thighs, then palmed the hairy skin. He wrapped his thumbs around Malcolm’s leg, teasing the sensitive skin near the crease of his thighs and his balls as well. Malcolm’s cock was mostly erect, throbbing a little with blood flow as it grew harder and tighter, thick and demanding.

  He pushed Malcolm back against the wall by his hips, just to establish the man’s place again, then nuzzled his balls, staying away from his dick—at least mostly. His cheek was brushing it, of course, and Malcolm’s twitches and barely-suppressed gasps told him Malcolm appreciated the thought. Kind of. He wondered if his cheek felt bristly and manlike now, when it was rubbing up against the tender skin of Malcolm’s dripping crown. Of course, if the position were reversed, Malcolm’s stubble would have been enough to skin him al
ive.

  “Tease much?” Malcolm grunted.

  “Impatient much?” Owen retorted, flickering his tongue around Malcolm’s ridge. He tasted salty, probably from the brisk walk outside, and Owen breathed out sharply because that was his undoing. He couldn’t just taste Malcolm, he needed to devour him.

  “If you don’t hurry up, I will take you over that bloody desk.” Malcolm’s threat held no heat, though, because he was leaning against the wall, his knees slightly spread, his crotch thrust out as far as he could. Owen shivered, thinking that yes, he really would like to be bent over right now because a good reaming might dispel a little of his stress, but then, so would swallowing Malcolm down his throat.

  “You’d like that,” he whispered, kissing the crease of Malcolm’s thigh. He licked daintily, savoring more of Mal’s sweat. “You’d love to get me fired from this job, right? Keep me locked up in your flat, ready to service you twenty-four/seven.” He punctuated his tease with licks, and nibbles, and the occasional playful stroke to Malcolm’s cock. When Malcolm knotted his fingers in Owen’s hair, the shudder that rocked Owen from his groin to his tingling nipples was worth the self-deprivation.

  “I’d be happy if you serviced me now,” Malcolm all but begged.

  It was the “all but” that added the edge to Owen’s arousal.

  “Say it,” he ordered, grinning up at Malcolm and licking his lips. “You want it, say it.”

  Malcolm groaned and pressed at the back of Owen’s head. Owen resisted and grinned up at Malcolm with a bit of evil in his gaze. Malcolm squeezed his eyes closed, even as Owen watched, and gave.

  “God, Owen, you’re killing me,” he breathed. “Just suck my fucking dick, would you?”

  Owen didn’t even bother to answer. He’d teased enough, and Malcolm had asked nicely—well, he’d asked—and it was Owen’s great pleasure to swallow that thick, lovely cock to the back of his throat with enough power to make Malcolm groan.